


Career Day

by deathmallow



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 74th Games, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1467532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathmallow/pseuds/deathmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Welcome to Career life.  Screwing each other is inevitable.”</i>  Finnick relearns some of the harsh realities of mentorship anew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Career Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sabaceanbabe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabaceanbabe/gifts).



They’d met up on the rooftop, as the tributes were sleeping in their bedrooms and any mentorship meeting out in the living room of any of the apartments could have woken them up. Finnick remembered how hard it was to sleep in the week before the Games—to the point Carrick bluntly advised him to take a sleeping pill. “You won’t sleep well in the arena, boy,” he said grimly, holding out the little green oval in his open palm. “Even in the early days with the pack to guard your back.”

The thing Carrick hadn’t told him then was that it was hard to sleep well after the arena either. But there were a lot of things he hadn’t been told. What it felt like to feel another human being’s blood on his fingers and watch the life drain from their eyes. Watching a silver parachute fall from the sky and feeling a sick gratitude. That the calls from Victor Affairs would start, and not stop until someday the Capitol got tired of him—maybe at twenty-five, maybe at thirty, maybe not until thirty-five like Haymitch.

Staring at the man there on the rooftop, overweight, scruffy, but at least far less drunk than he’d been in a few years, Finnick felt a churning in his gut, wondering if he didn’t have Annie and Mags if he’d be like that at age forty—used up and hopeless. Whatever it took to protect them, whatever it took to keep them safe.

Haymitch didn’t waste time, at least, folding his arms over his chest and eyeing each of them: Cashmere, Gloss, Enobaria, Brutus, Mags, and himself. “I want my boy in with the pack.” He may not have participated at a Career pack meeting before—any alliances Finnick could recall the best of Haymitch’s tributes being in, it was always with fellow dark horses. But he’d been around long enough, senior to all of them except Mags, to sense that business with them was best done briskly.

“Changing strategy this year?” Brutus said, looking surprised.

“Ain’t like anything else has worked for me in twenty-plus years,” Haymitch remarked dryly, leaning back against the waist-high wall surrounding the rooftop. “And I’ve got the tributes for it this year.” Yes, it seemed he did. An eleven and an eight—both higher than a Twelve tribute had gotten in years, as Claudius and Caesar so helpfully reminded the audience at every single opportunity. 

They talked a little about Pisaster’s score of seven too. They talked coyly about that and all the other eerie instances of déjà vu—how Pisaster Dufresne was already proving handsome, and from a fishing background, and fourteen, and bronze-haired and green-eyed, and charming. Finnick hadn’t known him before Reaping Day. Apparently Sast, as he was called, was from folk in Sundown Island, a port in the farthest west of the district, and Finnick grew up in Crooked Bayou a bit to the east of Victors’ Bayou. But when he looked at the boy, sometimes it was like looking at a ghost.

 _I‘m sorry_ , Mags signed to him after the reaping. He’d just nodded. He knew. She couldn’t have gotten a volunteer for Finnick, not after the Capitol saw him on stage and became interested. They’d have just reaped him again the next year, and the next, and killed a Four boy in resentment by withholding sponsorships because he wasn’t the one that intrigued them. She couldn’t have replaced Pisaster either with a volunteer once they saw his face, his grace.

Maybe they wanted a new Finnick. Maybe he’d be done whoring next year at age twenty-five, and two years from now, Pisaster would be sixteen and ready to take Finnick’s place. The thought made his skin crawl so much that he wanted to go take a shower right then, even after he’d showered once this evening already after his latest appointment. A new patron, but Lydia Divine just wanted straightforward sex, no fantasies or rough stuff or pretense—he’d been back in little more than an hour.

He scratched at the skin of his arm, wishing he could peel it off, and tried to pay attention. He saw how Haymitch and Gloss both eyed him knowingly at it. Yeah, they knew how it felt.

“No, we’ll take the girl,” Cashmere said, shaking her head and disagreeing. “She’s got the better training score.”

“Oh, she doesn’t play well with others,” Haymitch said, turning his eyes from Finnick and giving Cashmere that knife-sharp sarcastic smile of his. “She’ll be going it alone from the gong, I guarantee you that.”

“What’s the boy going to do for us?” Enobaria cut in, cocking an eyebrow and regarding Haymitch with a growing air of interest, rather than impatient disdain.

“The sponsors throw money at the pack every year because it’s a safe bet. It’s also a boring bet.” Haymitch shrugged. “Every time you let an outsider in, y’all _know_ your sponsorship numbers take a jump because of the interest. Get a Twelve in there, an anomaly from his training score, that’ll be the most fascinating thing they’ve seen in years. On my end, the boy gets more sponsorship for not going it alone. We both win from this.”

“Fair argument,” Brutus acknowledged. “But if you want him in the pack, he’s got to keep up. The report is that he’s strong, but largely untrained in weapons. Yes, he’s got an eight, _but_ …”

“I had a six,” Haymitch reminded them. “Worse than him. And I beat tributes from One, Two, _and_ Four.” The naked reminder and the slight hint of insult it carried was a surprise. Brutus cleared his throat uncomfortably, obviously recalling something, but Finnick couldn’t know what it was.

“Are you suggesting he’s pulling a Johanna and underplaying his abiltiies?” Gloss said.

“Would I be stupid enough to ask you to play along with that?” Haymitch said in exasperation. “I’m just saying, don’t count him out because he’s from Twelve and he ain’t been handling a spear since he was in kindergarten. He’s solid. He’ll surprise you.”

“That’s the trouble,” Finnick said. Unknown factors were always potential for problems. Still, there were no friends in Mentor Central, at least when it came to the pack. They all knew they’d have to fuck each other over in the end, because every single one of them, except Mags, had been through the Games in the Career days and made it to the victor’s crown with the blood of other Careers on their hands.

Mags signed swiftly, gnarled fingers sure and surprisingly grateful. Finnick translated for the others, though he knew Haymitch could more or less read it. “He’s right. We need something new. The sponsors have been down for the last several years.” She was right on that count. He’d heard the complaints, on the street and in bars and across pillows, that the Games were getting boring these last few years, despite the ever-more fantastic arena scenarios. Seneca Crane had best put something spectacular out there this year, although the presence of two actual contenders from Twelve already added some cayenne to the mix. She eyed Haymitch. “We take our chances with it, I say.”

Without Haymitch’s girl drawing so much attention, Pistaster could have gotten all the sponsors he needed. As was, Finnick admitted he’d been overshadowed as a mere echo of a familiar face rather than the sheer novelty of a Twelve volunteer with a high training score. Some help and some renewed attention for the pack might not hurt him. Even if sometimes he questioned whether he’d do the boy any favors by keeping him alive. 

“He pulls his weight, or he’s the first to go,” Cashmere warned Haymitch sharply.

“Of course. I’ll tell him,” Haymitch said smoothly. “Good night. See you at interviews.”

“Good to see you stepping up your game,” Brutus said in what was almost a grumble of affection. Haymitch just waved a hand back over his shoulder in idle acknowledgment of that.

As they headed back down to the Four apartment, and Mags hobbled off to bed, obviously exhausted, Finnick thought about Pisaster asleep in his bed, fourteen and innocent of so many things still. He’d slept in that same room years ago. Sighing, sprawled out on the couch, he turned through the channels of the television to kill the half hour before Snow sent the car for his next appointment. He wished he could call Annie, just talk to her, and hear her voice. Ask her if he was doing the right thing in trying to save a boy just so they could turn him into Finnick Junior.

Haymitch’s boy surprised them, all right, the next night at interviews. After the furor died down, Finnick wasn’t sure whether they wanted to kill Haymitch for that strategy of stealing everyone’s thunder or kiss him, because Peeta Mellark suddenly made himself from a middling-capable Twelve tribute into a sheer object of interest. If it all worked right and people saw Peeta in the pack now, well, Four probably wouldn't have gotten that much in sponsorship money in years. 

Still, it took him aback a bit. The Haymitch he knew looked out for the other victors first and foremost. He’d never coolly and deftly maneuvered like that, going behind their backs and keeping secrets. But maybe for the first time, Haymitch had a chance to be a mentor rather than a victor, and if it meant saving a tribute and bringing them home alive, Finnick couldn’t blame him. He’d told his share of lies over the years to One and Two. It was all part of the shit the Games made them do.

But he’d be lying if he didn’t admit it made him reassess Haymitch Abernathy at least a little, for the first time in the seven years he’d known the man. He'd been clever enough to use their own arena against them. Finnick had forgotten that. It was easy to forget, given how downtrodden Haymitch was now. But at least a Career was capable of separating the Games from friendships. Deception and betrayal among the pack was part of the annual cycle.

He saw that at the opening gong when Brutus’ boy quickly dispatched Pisaster, even as Peeta yelled a warning to Raisa in time for her to take care of the Seven girl charging at her. Finnick closed his eyes for a moment. He gave an apologetic nod towards Johanna when he opened them, both of them silently switching their headphones over to the surviving tributes of their district. So there wouldn’t be another fourteen-year-old boy from Four waiting to grow up a little more and meet his buyers. All Pisaster was now was decaying meat and abruptly ended promise—another piece of human detritus broken and spit out by the Capitol. He wasn’t sure how he could be relieved and crushed all at once, but this one got to him in the way most other tributes hadn’t.

He was in the bathroom puking it out when Haymitch came in. “Sorry,” he said gruffly.

“It’s for the best,” Finnick said equally quietly. He eyed himself in the mirror. He looked fine. A brief appointment in Remake to polish up and he’d be ready for appointments tonight.

“At least it was quick.” Funny how upside down this felt—usually it was Haymitch making a quick exit with his tributes right at the bloodbath, and Finnick going the distance.

“They didn’t want to risk the sponsors really starting to notice what the kid could do and remember you once the shine wore off my kids. Best to take him out quick.”

“Did they tell you…” It was a stupid question, but that new facet of Haymitch, obviously capable of deceit, made him wonder.

“They don’t tell me jack shit, Finn,” Haymitch said dryly. “We’re all in it for our own up there.”

He nodded, rinsed out his mouth, spat it into the sink. “Welcome to Career life. Screwing each other is inevitable.”

“According to the celeb reporters, victors are usually screwing each other 24/7 anyway,” Haymitch said dryly. Finnick stared at him, astonished at the bizarre joke, and then he couldn’t help but laugh. That was apparently exactly what he needed, because he laughed until his ribs hurt. “Shit, it wasn’t _that_ funny.”

When it was all said and done, Haymitch apparently had even more cards up his sleeve. Peeta Mellark suddenly turned on the pack to save the girl he loved, and Raisa and Cashmere’s girl paid the price for that courtesy of the tracker jackers—not that Finnick could blame him at all for that, watching the two kids in their cave and thinking of Annie and his own terror up in Mentor Central as the girl he’d met and come to love only the previous summer faced the arena and all its horrors. Too bad the girl didn’t love Peeta back. He was surprised Haymitch let her get away with acting that bad, and then reminded himself—no, the girl hadn’t been trained in acting, ready for the risk of Reaping Day and the expectations of a Career. But apparently the Capitol bought it, and Haymitch’s damn hidden cards kept coming, and after some furtive meetings with Seneca Crane, before it was all said and done, he’d saved both of his tributes.

 _You mad bastard_ , Finnick thought, staring at him across Mentor Central as the hovercraft carried both the Twelve tributes back to the Capitol. _What have you done?_ He admired it even as he couldn’t help but fear the man had massively overstepped and he’d get punished for it somehow. But apparently he got away with it.

When it came time to leave, Haymitch shook hands with him, holding on for just a lingering moment. “Two new victors for Twelve. They’ll mentor, of course. So I won’t be back next year,” he said. They both knew what that meant. He might get invited back to the Capitol occasionally, and with how wild with approval the audience went at the victory interview, apparently Haymitch’s star was fast on the rise again. 

But the chances of them ever meeting again were uncertain at best. No phone calls between districts and no letters, let alone actual visits. The only sure way Haymitch would be back next Games was if he suddenly resumed his circuit career again, and that was unlikely for an overweight forty-year-old. Besides, Finnick wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Finnick nodded, sensing Haymitch didn’t want to make a big deal of the goodbyes, because he was probably unable to bear it. The victors seemed like the only family Haymitch had, and now even that was taken away if he didn’t have to come to the Capitol every summer. Still, at least he’d have the two kids there alongside him, and that was far more than he’d had in a long time. “You take care,” he said. “Write us and send ‘em along with the kids. And when they get here, we’ll all help train them up right.” It was unusual. Usually the senior mentor would be there to take care of it, but with Haymitch forced out of it, Twelve would be starting over with two novices. And there was only so much advice Haymitch could give without being right in the situation.

“Thanks,” Haymitch said. With one last press of Finnick’s hand, looking like he wanted to say something more, he let go. And just like that, he was gone. 

Finnick thought of Pisaster again, in his silver-trimmed white coffin all ready for the tribute cemetery back near Victors' Bayou, and how ferociously Haymitch had fought for his tributes, and how conflicted Finnick himself had been about how hard to fight. Maybe he’d gotten complacent, maybe every Career got a little complacent. Maybe he should have fought harder, been less conflicted about it. It should be up to the tribute whether they wanted to do what it took to survive the arena, and accept all that it meant. It wasn’t Finnick’s choice. _Next year_ , he thought. It would all begin again, but this time he’d do it differently.


End file.
